Chapter 18
“We were downwind, so I had to turn the stern into the wind. That’s what causes the sail and the boom to swing across.
It’s a pretty advanced move. Another few hours of practice, and I could probably win America’s Cup.
” Wren glances at Sawyer, who’s sitting beside her, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Right?”
“I would never argue with you,” Sawyer says, straight-faced.
Wren flips her hair over her shoulder before reaching for her water glass. “You love arguing with me.”
Sawyer smirks. “Teams that win America’s Cup typically spend three to four years training. Cardio endurance, simulator testing, and iterative design refinement are all perfected before competing. Two sessions of you taking over once it’s the ‘fun part’ probably wouldn’t put you in first place.”
My sister rolls her eyes.
My parents exchange a knowing smile.
I saw through my salmon with more force than is necessary.
Dinner with my family at Atlantic Crest Country Club has been perfectly pleasant.
Yet I’m weirdly restless, listening to Wren recap her afternoon on the water and Mom tell us about her current project.
It’s strange to not be sitting at my round kitchen table with Flynn.
I wonder if he’s there tonight, on his laptop, or if he’s taken a break from working.
Maybe he finished early and is at a bar with friends. Maybe he—
“Is that Flynn?” Wren asks suddenly.
I spin so fast that my neck cracks.
It is Flynn.
He’s stopped beside Xavier Tate’s table. Xavier came over to our table earlier to talk to my parents. He was in good spirits then, but wasn’t laughing loudly the way he is now.
Flynn’s gaze flicks this direction a second later, like he senses my eyes on him. The small smile he was wearing grows as we look at each other, and I feel as though I just gulped a large mouthful of champagne. Like my blood has been infused with fizziness, carbonated and effervescent.
He came. He said he wouldn’t be here, but he showed up.
And I know it’s all pretend. That this marks the start of our public facade and his own motivations are at play here. The sooner we start to fake date, the sooner we can get engaged and he receives his inheritance.
But there were plenty of times that Carson never showed up after he said he would and no times that he surprised me by showing up after he said he wouldn’t.
Flynn leaves Xavier’s table and continues toward ours, strolling with his hands tucked in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, standard attire for the club’s dress code, but a few creases in the fabric make me think this is what he wore all day. That he came straight here from the office.
More fizzing.
I’m still staring. I feel the shock frozen on my face, the combination of his unexpected appearance and my pleased reaction thoroughly unsettling me.
Flynn’s grin expands even more as he studies my expression, his gaze locked on mine until he reaches our table. “Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not. It’s so nice to see you, Flynn!” Mom stands first, hugging him.
He hugs Wren next, then shakes hands with Dad and Sawyer. Dad beckons a waiter over, requesting another chair be added to our round table. It arrives while Flynn is chatting with Sawyer. I watch him subtly indicate the seat should be placed next to me, the only person he hasn’t greeted yet.
My heartbeat quickens as Wren catches the motioned request. Her eyebrows lift and scrunch as her curious eyes bounce between Flynn and me, scrutinizing with obvious intrigue.
Flynn has spent plenty of time around my family.
He’s golfed with my dad and brought my mom flowers, and Wren treats him as a cool older brother.
But Kit—and often some combination of Scarlett, Crew, Lili, and Bash—was always around.
There was the obvious link of Flynn’s friendship with my cousin that explained his presence, which is noticeably absent tonight.
Sawyer grins at something Flynn said to him.
Flynn lightly punches his shoulder before starting toward the open chair.
Once again, I’m in awe of his ease. As far as I know, he’s only met Wren’s boyfriend once before, at my graduation party.
This is my second dinner with Sawyer, plus the outing bluffing with his friends, and I’m not nearly that comfortable around him yet.
Oddly, it makes me feel better. I’ve always been aware Flynn’s appeal is practically universal.
I’ve been susceptible to it, even when I’ve pretended otherwise, so it’s proof this strange sensation isn’t special.
That my reaction to seeing Flynn is how everyone reacts to seeing him, not because I’m starting to enjoy spending time with him.
Not because this trip felt emptier when I knew he was in Manhattan.
I was chilly a minute ago. Now I’m awash in warmth. The corners of Flynn’s brown eyes crinkle as he nears, and I’m swarmed with the intoxicating, unsettling sensation of anticipation, wondering what he’ll say when he reaches me.
Nothing, as it turns out. He rests his right hand on the back of my chair, tilts my chin up with his left, and kisses me.
Flynn Parks kisses me.
At Atlantic Crest Country Club, in front of my entire immediate family and most of the Hamptons’ elite, who own mansions nearby.
Except I entirely forget where we are and who might be watching because Flynn can kiss.
It’s not sloppy or domineering or mundane, which is how I would categorize most of my previous experiences.
His lips are warm and taste faintly of espresso, applying the perfect pressure to my mouth.
Hard enough to leave an impression, but not harsh enough to bruise.
His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip before he pulls away, intensity replacing the previous playfulness in his warm gaze.
I want to touch my tingling skin. I want him to kiss me again. I feel as though I were just spun in rapid circles, then instructed to stand up straight.
That’s what making out is supposed to be like?
“Sorry I’m late,” he whispers before taking the seat beside me.
I blink rapidly, reorienting to a new reality in which I’ve kissed Flynn Parks.
“When did this happen?” Wren’s gleeful tone fractures the reverie.
When I glance at my sister, there’s a huge smile on her face.
Not that unexpected since I know she’s a fan of Flynn’s.
But I suppose I was anticipating Wren would look more …
surprised? She almost appears smug. I think I’m more shocked than she is right now.
Which is ridiculous because Flynn and I would never date for real.
“Uh …” I glance at my parents next. They do appear taken aback, but neither look unhappy. “It’s—”
“It’s recent,” Flynn says smoothly, thanking the waiter who adds a place setting in front of his seat. He settles in his chair, resting one arm across the back of mine.
His fingers brush my arm. An electric current hums beneath my skin, instantly elevating my heart rate. He’s sitting closer than normal since his chair was a later addition to the table, and I’m hyperaware of each centimeter. Of how familiar his scent is. I catch a whiff every time I pass his room.
I nod in agreement. “We’re dating. Recently dating.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says.
Dad’s demeanor is more reserved, but he does tell Flynn he’s happy he could join us and sounds sincere.
“I knew you were full of shit,” Wren declares, her eyes glinting with excitement.
Mom chastises her for swearing while another wave of warmth washes over me.
I meant it—all the times I said the women chasing Flynn were wasting their time. This situation is a perfect example. He’d rather concoct a giant lie and trick his father into thinking that he’s settling down than actually do so.
What I didn’t mean were the times that I said I didn’t see the appeal. And I know Wren isn’t trying to embarrass me on purpose, but I don’t want Flynn to think I—
“Never thought she’d give me a shot.”
My eyes fly from my sister to Flynn, who’s reaching for his water glass. Wren was talking to him, not me.
“Everyone who thinks I’m stubborn has never met Rory,” Wren says. “In her defense, she’s usually right about whatever she’s insisting she’s right about.”
I wasn’t right about Carson. But Wren is correct; I can be stubborn. I commit. I try to fix problems rather than admit there’s no solution or cut losses. And with the sole exception of academics and now my career, I don’t think that habit has served me especially well.
Flynn orders an entrée, and then Wren resumes her story about sailing with Sawyer earlier.
It’s bizarre how normal it is. How seamlessly the conversation continues into my parents asking Flynn about his job, then Flynn asking Sawyer questions about sailing and about working at the marina.
Julian keeps a boat at the yacht club, which I didn’t realize.
By the time we finish dessert, I’m fully relaxed. Tonight couldn’t have gone better. My family knows—and appears to approve—and at least three of the surrounding tables are occupied by notable members of New York’s elite. The Albrights will hear who I’m dating by tomorrow—maybe tonight.
“Let’s dance.”
It takes me a second to realize Flynn is speaking to me. When I do, a startled, “Here?” sputters out of my mouth.
“Well, not next to the table.” He glances to the right. “On the dance floor.”
Calling it a dance floor is generous. There is an open square section of hardwood, where someone could presumably dance, just left of the piano. A hired pianist plays live music during the club’s dinner hours, but I’ve never seen anyone dancing before.
Flynn stands before I can voice my protest, offering me a hand.
Across the table, Wren is beaming as wide as physically possible. She’s normally the only one who badgers me into ridiculous moments. Who forcibly drags me out of my comfort zone because she knows, as my sister, she’ll eventually be forgiven.
Flynn has no such assurances. And he needs me, especially now that we’ve gone public with our pretend relationship.
But he remains perfectly at ease, his hand steady as he waits for me to grab it, despite knowing that I am not adventurous or easygoing, convincing me that us dancing as part of the dinner entertainment isn’t as outrageous as it should be.
“One song,” I say, pushing away from the table.
I want to talk to him alone anyway. I can’t question why he showed up or what the plan is from here in front of my family.
Flynn leads, his hold on my hand firm and sure as we weave around tables toward the corner, where the piano is set up.
He acknowledges plenty of the people we pass, but doesn’t stop to talk to anyone.
I smile but say nothing, enjoying the rare sensation of allowing someone else to lead.
I’m less self-conscious a step behind Flynn’s assurance, like it’s soaking up the spotlight and shielding me.
When we reach the open floor, he spins me, almost causing us to collide before he steadies me with a hand on my waist. I hiss his name when it slips an inch lower, close to the curve of my ass.
“Relax, Florence.”
“I am relaxed,” I lie.
My unease should be rooted in awareness of how many people in this room are staring at us. Instead, it mainly has to do with how close his lips are. If he kisses me again—
“You’re a good dancer.”
I blink at him, taken aback by the compliment. We’re out of earshot of the nearest table, and he sounds totally sincere. Is this part of the act, or is this genuine?
“I took lessons. For cotillion.”
“So did Lena Hamilton. Yet I had bruises on my feet for weeks, thanks to her heels.”
“Probably because she spent most of the practice sessions arguing with Mallory Marlowe about which of them would get to ask you to the dance first instead of learning the proper steps.”
“You’re saying it was my fault my feet were mutilated?”
“Yes.”
He grins.
“What happened with work?” I ask.
“I finished early.”
“Is that code for a summer associate helping you?”
Flynn doesn’t smile this time, although the teasing was intentional. “No.”
I clear my throat. “Well, good. I’m glad you were able to come.”
“You are?”
“It’s the plan, right?”
“I think your parents like me,” he says seriously.
I smile. “Of course they like you. They’ve always liked you.”
“They like me as their nephew’s friend. That’s very different from liking the guy dating their daughter.”
“Oh,” is the best response I can come up with. Between that lame reply and the earlier explanation of my supposed dancing skills, I’m not contributing much to the conversation.
At least I haven’t stepped on his feet yet.
“Graham Clarence is having a party tonight.”
“Okay …”
I know who Graham is since Dalton wasn’t a huge school. But I don’t think I’ve seen Graham since he graduated. I don’t know or care about what he’s done since, inclusive of any party.
“We should go.”
“To the party?” I question, continuing my streak of stupid comments.
Obviously, he means to the party that he just mentioned, and that shouldn’t be such a startling concept. We’re pretending to be together. Him showing up to a party solo won’t do anything to sell that act.
“I’ll pick you up at nine,” he states, then spins me away right as I start to protest.
A complete coincidence, I’m sure.